


Over Glowing Hills

by memphisgreen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Consensual Infidelity, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Incest, Infidelity, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 08:19:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16512686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memphisgreen/pseuds/memphisgreen
Summary: She stares at herself in the mirror, hair a mess and bags under her eyes, and she feels and looks every bit of her age, her face-Her face is an aching reminder of him.A death brings life.





	Over Glowing Hills

**Author's Note:**

> Because. I have a use for you.

 

It starts like this. Out of the ether and into the void and there he is, divine, his eyes that same shade of black and blue, his mouth a curl of smoke across her lips. He whispers things she can’t quite understand, a distortion, a shadow in the fog. He touches her, twists her body all around, makes her arch her back, tuck her hips, roll with him across the landscape of her dream. His strange hissing like more than just his hands on her body. There he is, everywhere and nowhere, calling _Harriet, Harriet, Harri_ in her ear and she opens her eyes.

He is gone in the span of one waking moment.

She blinks. Blinks again and realizes her dreams are just that, dreams. They have become frequent, shockingly familiar. The pink of dawn slides through the slats covering the windows, morning creeping toward her. Her legs are tangled with Draco’s, his arm curled around her middle. She breathes out slowly, clearing the fog from last night. She slides her hand up the fine hair of Draco’s arm, the soft skin that hides strong muscles underneath, her gaze faraway, she could close her eyes again, escape back. She shifts, disengages from that fantasy.

Draco, sleepy soft this early, runs a hand down her bare back, turns and just as quickly falls back into untroubled dreams. She slides toward the edge, sits upright, lightly traces the sleep patterns that line her shoulders and breasts. Her back hunches over, a shiver from the chill in the air, and she rubs a hand across her face.

She’d been crying in her sleep, _for him_  echoes in the caverns of her mind.

She slowly rises and stretches her arms until she hears the satisfying pop of bones aligning. Lets herself have a good stretch. She has hours until they need to leave, until she has to face this day. She winces when she takes her first step, the taste of last night’s wine still too strong in her mouth, and a soreness and sweetness that always comes from a good fucking. She stops to get her bag from the table by the door.

Dobs had already brought in the breakfast, and she nabs a bit of dry toast before her eye catches the morning paper, the headlines, _Interment Today, Prodigal Son Returns With Fiancé,_  jumping out at her and she swallows with an audible click. She catches just the top of his dark hair in the picture before she stops herself. The papers have tortured her all week, her heartache following her around in black and white. She grabs her bag and steps to the en suite.

She slides between door and jamb, closing it softly behind her, and feels like she can breathe again with walls between her and his picture.

Gleaming copper greets her, a Malfoy heirloom from so long ago that even her ancestors weren’t on the isle yet. Or that’s the way Draco likes to tell it. She fills the tub, sitting naked on the rim, smoking her first cigarette, silent, mourning, contemplating. She stares at herself in the mirror, hair a mess and bags under her eyes, and she feels and looks every bit of her age, her face-

Her face is an aching reminder of him.

Draco would say it was grief, remorse, a million tiny rational things that would explain it away, these feelings. He’s been surprisingly sweet lately, a balm to her restlessness. Uncommonly kind. She likes the numb catatonia she feels now, the calm before the storm. She keeps her silence, about the dreams, about the tender cruelty of her own mind, the smallest of the mountain of shared secrets between them.

She flicks her cigarette in the loo, flushes and spritzes some of her perfume. Pours in a gallon or two of the bath oil she loves so much that Draco keeps on hand and slides into steamy water.

This morning, she’s lost in the past, the dreadful present, the terrible familiarity of her loneliness and heartbreak. She feels a tear fall, unbidden. Her sorrow is casual to her, an old friend. Her heart feels like ash, burned to the ground with the thought of his presence, the harsh reality of them now.

She closes her eyes, feeling old and stupid, terrible in the cold light of the new morning. She can’t stop her mind from going back to him, his face and his eyes and his hair, his features so treasured in the darkest parts of her mind, the old quiver in her stomach at the thought of him. Her hand glides over the steaming surface, dipping and making small waves. It was something about water. 

Something about being submerged that brought him back to her.

 

*

 

The funeral is not a quiet affair. More than three hundred and fifty altogether, invitation only.  

Including the strange man who has been after her since the bells rung.

She isn’t sure how he got in, how he got to be perched behind them, muttering about more money for burial rites, eccentricities left over from another time, “Ma’am, he had very strong beliefs and it’s just another two hundred thousand pounds...” He doesn’t care that her face is closed, that this is rude, that this is not the place, and can’t he understand she’s barely holding on, but Draco just holds Harri’s stiff fingers tighter.

A soft hymn starts up, and Harri thinks,  _Finally_ , just as the chapel doors swing open hitting the wall behind them. She jumps, already tense.

A buzz of tension settles over the crowd, a murmur of sudden whispers and Harriet looks back, back, back at the the double doors that lead into the room. 

She blinks. She knew this was coming, she knew. She feels like the world starts to blacken around the edges, she closes her eyes, turns back around and breathes. She tries to focus on anything other than the agony that settles right over her heart, she clenches her fingers around Draco’s again, something real and solid, opens her eyes to find the world has been righted.

His fiancé is on his arm only for a moment before she takes a seat in the back. Harri’s face heats, she is devastatingly gorgeous, every inch the opposite of her.  And him, he’s the same, but different. It’s like taking a step back just to run towards the cliff.

Draco’s brow is furrowed, “Unbelievable, late to his own Father’s funeral.” He looks at her but she refuses to look back, she watches Tom, as he walks past them to the casket, tall and proud, years vanishing with each step. Draco scoffs, incredulous, twists so that his arm curves around her back, his eyes to the man that holds all the attention of the room.

Her mind is frantic, reliving and relishing in memories, a whole life flashing by in an instant. Choices, wrong and right, consequences, exquisite and terrifying, all piled together to weave her to where she is now, back in his presence.

Harri feels wild emotions clog the back of her throat. She looks at him, takes her fill while his back is to her, while he leans over their father’s dead body. When he walks back, they catch eyes and she feels tiny, like a kid all over again in the coldness of his glance. He sits in the back with his intended and as the bishop starts she feels the weight of his sharp eyes on her. In her, Harri thinks, always searching for a way inside her.

 

*

 

They have a wake back at their Father’s sprawling estate. Draco comes, fitting right in with this old money, he doesn’t stay with her too long, and he doesn’t say it, but this is good business (he doesn’t have to, she already knows). Hermione and Ginny come as well, for a short time, dutifully there for her, sticking out like sore thumbs. She begs them to leave off early, and she smiles at the relief in Hermione's eyes.

The estate is flooded with old men and women, clothes crisp in mourning, they crowd the formal rooms of the estate. Draco plies her with glass after glass of red wine then letting her be. Thank you, thank you, she whispers into the rim each time.

Tom. Tom is here. Somewhere. She ... did not come. Harri’s been looking.

She shakes over the kitchen sink, needing a break, smokes and smokes one right after the other for ten minutes straight. She can hear the echoes of the mourners she had to push through to get down here in the hustle of the kitchen.

Cornelius and Lucius raising a toast to her dead father ( _at last_ , they murmur), the sniffles of Bathilda beside Minerva, Crouch’s somber voice rattling off number after number. She had caught sight of Albus, quiet in the corner, his own grief palpable. He hasn’t said a word today. Not even at the funeral.

She cracks open the window, herbs rattle on the sill at the disturbance. A biting wind from the north comes in but she can’t feel it on her cold face. She sees him in the garden, across the way, head back and smoking at the white iron table.

She swallows ash and wine, goes to him.

He keeps his head back, the same smoke that she blows out mixing together in the wind. She doesn’t say anything as she pulls out a chair, just lays her cheek on one palm, rubs her finger around the rim of his whiskey glass, old habits. Her emotions run the gamut, anguish and anger, misery and horrible excitement. He’s here.

 _You’re home_ , she wants to say in the same breath she shares with him. She wants to touch his skin, feel the weight of his existence. She wants. Too much, too late, too soon. His opened pack sits close to her so she slides a fag out, and then there he is, inches from her. His hand curls around hers, his other flicks that same lighter he’s had since fifteen, the snake engraved, circling around those three stoic etters.

His cufflinks, the same sigal.

Their father had them made. 

She draws in hard, turns her face away from him, from his eyes on her, intense and guarded, always the same. Harri suddenly wants to ask him why she isn’t here, but she promised herself in the hundred steps it took to reach him not to bring her up. She thinks that if she starts she’ll never be able to finish. She swallows, dry, hates the stillness he carries like a birthright. She’s never known it.

“He asked for you.” Always for Tom, _bring me my boy_. Her father's last years on this earth had not been kind, she had walked away more often than not with some form of bruises, from his angry words or his angry hands. He had been almost incoherent by the end, talking to a Tom that wasn’t going to come back while he was alive. She couldn’t stand it.

They had never been particularly close as a family. And when Tom had left, when Tom was gone, ( _he’ll never come back for you, girl_ ), theirs was a bridge that could not be gapped. Her father’s small heart had sealed itself completely from her then. She’d never had his love. She’d had Tom’s, once upon a time. Once, they were inseparable.

She watches the crumple of her ashes, they float back to the black of her dress, her stockings, smudges that she rubs in with her fingertips.

He hmmms, his elbows on the table now, too close to her.

“I don’t care. He’s not why I came back.” She chokes the immediate passion that comes with that voice, the low frequency of his articulation, the rumble of his consonants, the slow roll of his vowels. She can admit in the cacophony of her own mind that she had missed it. She had dreamed of it more than anything, more than his face, his hands, the curl of his sharp smile, the cut of his hips. His voice was uniquely his, and it played havoc on her thoughts, like he was still with her, after all this time. His words register moments later.

The will, or course. The estate.

“Congratulations, it’s all yours now.” Her voice rides that high line of condescension and he gives her nothing but that same flick of a razor wire smirk. Her name will not be called at the reading, she’s sure, but she has the small house in St. Albans, a nice career she’s managed to hold down. She’s never gone without before, she doesn’t expect she will now. Her hand shakes, the wind turning bitter.

A million things go unsaid when she stands to leave. He doesn’t stop her.

 

*

 

The window is still open and it’s turning her hands red while she washes the few dishes left. Draco had been back to his panty charming self before leaving, kissed her behind her ear, ran an elegant hand down her back and asked her if she’d come back to his parents estate in Wiltshire with him before he headed back to London. _No, not tonight, darling_. His face closed tight, but he wrapped an arm around her, kissed her again, told her he’d ring her tomorrow, a demand she nodded her assent to. Then he was gone, the last of them all.

She’s got a hand around her wine glass, soap still clinging to the bones in her wrist, her last cigarette in her other. She leans back against the countertop in the dark kitchen, looks at the empty lawn. She doesn’t know when Tom left.

She hadn’t planned on staying after speaking with him, but she had come back in, angry quiet hurt, turned her thoughts off to drink with Albus, something to soothe her nerves. Then Alastor had called her over and she’d sat on the couch, warm leather and still smelling of Father’s pipe, and she couldn’t will herself to leave, to keep her eyes off the picture on the other side of the room, Tom and her. Amelia traced the roundness of her face in the frame, and all Harri could see was that they had the same curve in their smile. The same dimple that winked at each other on the left side. One time they had found that the moles on their thighs had matched up, big to little. The same patterns.

She sniffs, finishes her glass and pours another. Four gulps and it’s gone, opens another bottle and starts on it. She had lit some candles walking back through after Draco left, the glow that flickers around her is nice. The moon that shines on the tile floor, that’s nice too.

She should stop drinking. She rolls her eyes at herself, alone, she’ll do what she damn well likes the last night she spends in the house she grew up in.

Gellert isn’t here anymore, anyway.

She walks the halls like a ghost, past family portraits, crests, antiques, everything that her father had been so proud of. Too much like Draco. Too superior, too tied to their past. Harri had been like a fly in the ointment, skin too dark, hair too curly. Tom’s mother had been porcelain.

She finishes the bottle, slides down the wall right outside the hallway to the sun parlour. She takes one last long gulp of the wine, spins the bottle on the floor now that it’s empty.

The ghosts she stayed away from that haunted this house are after her tonight. The open stained glass doors to the room in front of her make her remember what she has spent a lifetime trying to forget. Her eyes follow to the sconce that sits too low on the wall, the framed art beside it, the table that held roses, forever fresh ruby red roses.

They are a trail of breadcrumbs, they are before. When she’s felt the after for so long, it stirs something in her, something dark and painful, something that thrives in the before.

He had held her close and kissed her all along these walls.

The sconce, the art, the table, they had tumbled and torn into them. Their eyes and mouths only for each other. Gellert had been on a business trip, again, and they had left a trail of ruin behind them, nothing in their heads but thoughts of skin, and lips, and insides. All alone, but not alone. Tom had been as charming then as he seemed to be now, forever ruthless.

She plants one foot on the ground, weaves her way back to two. She leaves the bottle lying there. She craves a cigarette like oxygen. She leans against the wall and bites on her nails to get the taste of nicotine back in her mouth. Thinks. She finally tipsy sways back toward the staircase. She had left a pack in her room about five years ago. It should still be good.

She makes her way back through the twists and turns of this house, up the stairs, to the west wing. Last door on the left.

Her room.

Gellert had kept it like she left it when she went to university. He had never asked her to come back home, to try to fill the gap Tom had left, but him keeping it like this had said it in other ways. The place in her stomach where the Gellert Ulcer lives throbs. Her memories now hold the pain of his death, everything tinged with loss.

She hears the music right at the door. A slow thrum of guitars, a little beat that would be stuck in her head all night. Her radio, she leans against the door with her hand wrapped around the knob. She’d left it there, with that cassette still in it, the one with ‘Tom’ on it. The curled letters of her adolescence so painful and clear.

It brings her back to fifteen, vividly, immersing herself suddenly in a summer she’d spent her lifetime trying to forget.  

They were coming home from the tediousness of boarding school. Gellert would not abide by anything else, they were to be gone as much as possible. The rarer his children were, the better. Tom was coming home from Eton, his accent just beginning to sound more pronounced. He had picked her up on his way, the first time she had seen him since Christmas hols. He had a hickey peeking from beneath his crisp collar, and she had burned with her jealousy, longing seeped in the sharp morrow of her bones. Draco had been with him, the summer sun catching his hair in the open top, and she felt her stomach slide, something new and not Tom, a first. Draco had turned around, chatted her up, let her find her breath again after seeing Tom’s affections had strayed. She leaned against the backseat, stomach in, chest out, her eyes sliding every now and then to the rigid line of Tom’s shoulders. Her smile just a miniature version of his.

His eyes were sharp behind his Wayfarer’s.

They pulled up to Draco’s manor and she had got out to move up front. But she stopped, leaned back against the side of the car and let him take a look at her, finally on the right side of puberty. Her legs went on for miles, one of her best features, but he had grown too, that boyishness tightly clinging to the man that would come out the other side.

Tom had sighed behind them, bored and annoyed but Draco had slid his number into the pocket of her blazer, his hand grazing the first womanly curve of her side. She grinned at him, a blush fusing with the freckles on her face.

On the ride home, Tom’s hand had landed, hot and heavy, on her bare thigh ( _so long since Christmas, too long_ ), a rough squeeze that made her tense up. His fingers gliding on her soft skin. Up, up, up.

“Darling, it’s like you want to make me angry.” The winds caught his words, twisted them all around her and she squeezed her thighs together, trapping his hand between them. She had looked over, trapped her bottom lip between her teeth and grinned.

The one thing she had wanted that summer ( _forever_ ) was his attention. She’d been desperately in love with him her whole life.

Her face flushes outside the door to her childhood bedroom, trying to fight her way out of her memories. She lets out a breath, clenches her thighs like she’s right back in the front seat of that Aston Martin.

She turns the knob and goes in.

  
*

 

Tom has his back to her, seated at her desk, he shuffles through a stack of papers with only the lamp to illuminate them. There’s printed word and curling script and most of the pages are yellowed with age. She has never seen them.

She stills. Her nerves get the best of her and she bites her lip, acutely aware that her presence has not been asked for.

His turns his head, catches sight and scent of her. His smile is more smirk, that same lick of a razor blade. He turns to her, the cigarette that had been dangling in his mouth transferred to hand.

“I found your stash.” He motions to the bed where her sad little pack lays next to his lighter. It’s all the invitation she needs. She swallows nerves and slinks closer to her vice, lands too heavily on the bed but lights up immediately.

She breathes in, it’s bad and stale and awful but it’s better than breathing oxygen, any day. He laughs at her, draws in until his cherry burns bright and puts the cigarette right out on her desktop. It’s his now.

This feels like stepping in the past, as worn and comfortable as an old shoe. She sucks another lungful then slides her way across the bed, stretching her long legs, feeling the stress melt away into the bedding. She puts an arm under her head, flicks her ashes off the twin size into his floor.

“Still fucking Draco, I see.” She laughs in the moonlight, listens to the low thrum of the music that he put on, his name tattooed all over it but he played it for her. She feels the warmth that he always brought with him, his attention like the sun shining down on her. She slides around until he’s in her eyesight, so she can watch him when she says,

“He’s asked me to marry him.” The paper shuffling stops, his chair creaks as he turns her way. She takes one final drag, then crushes the cigarette on the immaculate white wood of the bedside table. Their eyes catch, maintain.

“I wasn’t aware of that.” His voice is low, flat, it doesn’t bring the joy she thought it would, this spitefulness only fuels the flames of her agony.

“Last week actually. Before I knew abou-“ She sits up on the bed, hunched, and fists the edge of the outdated comforter. His brow lifts, and she’s the first one to look away. She can’t bare to say it out loud, what she’s lost.

Miserably, she thinks they look good next to each other, him and this woman that he’s vowed to marry. 

It hurt. To know that he was going to take someone’s hand and place a ring on it, that someone would take his name and his bed. He still clings to all the dark places inside her, all the sticky nastiness that festers to bloom. He stands, one hand on his hip, his eyes on Harri and she feels weighed and measured.

He shakes his head and she’s sees his sardonic smile, his good natured humor. He kneels before her, groans in a way that she isn’t used to, like he’s human after all.

“I’ve missed you.” A quiet confession and this close, his eyes are still that electric blue, his mouth still spews all the right words. He’s still the loveliest thing she’s ever seen.

His fingers graze the top of her stockinged thighs, his smile a carbon copy of that summer, a million miles in the wind now, his boyish grin still as devastating, still as destructive.

He lifts one hand to rest lightly against the skin of her throat, and it’s trained in her, it’s like breathing, like smoking the same brand of cigarettes. She tilts her head back, exposes her weakness to him. She sighs and her eyes slide close the same time his name drifts from her open mouth.

“That’s a good girl.” It’s a knee jerk reaction to scoot closer to him, to tilt her hips and open up her legs and welcome him back home. Some dark, petty part of her preens, slinks into his vileness, a match for him.

His grip tightens and she jerks closer, and his mouth is close to her again, slides against her sensitive ear and the ghost that haunted her dreams whispers, “Harriet, Harriet, Harri.”

Her name on his lips does something to her, something deep inside that is coded only to him. She reaches a trembling hand toward him, the curve of his face, the soft silk of his curls, it makes her heart sick to be this close to him, to hold him but not have him. It’s like the dams bursting forth when their skin meets, like finding light after being shut in the dark for so long. She feels him, finally, the solidness of him, the same smell that chases her day and night. He is here, real, present. Finally, finally, their mouths meet and something inside her fractures. She can’t stop the tidal wave of her breaking anymore than she can stop kissing him. It’s messy, sloppy, he grabs ahold of her jaw, keeps her face still and licks inside her open mouth, testing. The waters have not changed.

She feels her heart, what’s left of it, break itself back open, bleeds out for him. She wants it, wants the warmth and pulse, that miserable alive feeling that he brings with him. That he’s kept for himself for so long.

She clutches at him, without any sense of herself. There is a passion here that burns bright. The embers flame back to life with his return. He took the good parts of her with him, to keep him warm where he was, to make her the ghost in this story even when he was the one gone. He wraps his hand around the back of her head, angles her head the way he likes, grazes his teeth on the swell of her bottom lip. She moans, twists closer until she can feel him, hot and swollen with layers between them.

Their mouths move slow, slip slide on skin, lover’s spit mapping out the places they’ve been. His face is so pale and his eyes are hungry, dark, eating up the moonlight.

He slides closer to her, buries his face in the curls of her hair, his nose brushing against her. His hands slide down her back, grip the meat of her hips. Then his strong, strong hands wrap around her thighs, pull until her upper body lays flat on her childhood bed.

This is a position she knows well, familiarity strengthened by the bond that has been snapped back into place between them. She spreads her legs, keeps her hands on the cool bedding but she desperately wants to grab his hair, push him closer to her.

“How much do you want my mouth darling, dear sweet Harriet?” Said hot mouth traces the seam of her stockings on the inside of her thighs and she’s tight all over, flushed and drunk on him.

“Please, please.” He takes pity, glorious pity on her and pulls the stockings shockingly quick, ripping fabric from her. This is the kind of casual violence that he always treated her with, the kind that sends a shiver down her spine.

“Get that fucking dress off.” His quiet command rumbles through her and she sits up just enough so she can obey him. Pulls dress and underwear off at a breakneck speed, she needs him, down to the bone, down to the quick of her. She needs him.

He mouths at the skin that’s bare before him, his tongue laving paths that drive her already close to the edge. He licks across the plump of her mound, the seam of her lips, a tease, a promise. He hauls her legs up, let them sit on his shoulders and finally tastes the center of her.

She moans, a back breaking arch of her spine, she can’t help herself but tangle her hands into his hair, push her legs up and back until she feels the ache of that strain. The hotness of his mouth melds into her, his kisses to her clit driving her to lean up, closer to him. He undoes her completely with each lap, each time he pulls the ripeness of her into his mouth, sucks until she can feel how swollen she’s becoming, how wet. How utterly filthy he makes her. He’s smeared her all over herself.

“Sloppy wet, Harriet. That’s what you are. My very dirty girl.” He sighs against her sticky thighs. The same thing he said, a lifetime ago. She’s always been wet for him, from the first time to now. “I could eat this sweet pussy for hours.” He bites at her thighs, his grip on her hard, rigid, he’s quietly passionate, his mouth hot, hotter than she is. But he whispers quietly into the first thing he ever defiled. “Oh, how I’ve missed you, darling.”

It makes her sob soundless, the tears that come quickly, quietly. He’s never been able to unbreak her heart.

He dives back in, like a man dying, like a man on his knees. Her legs shake, tremor with his head trapped between them. She’s so close already, the mere thought of his mouth on her, him reclaiming her in this way has primed her up. He flicks his tongue, uses a little pressure with his teeth, all moves in his arsenal. She rides his face, her hips pumping to meet him, an ache deep inside that makes her clench on air, so empty of him.

He carries her along that line, until finally her stomach does that nerveless swoop, and she brings her legs in close, a _thump thump thump_ of the world narrowing down to just him and the feelings he sets alight inside her.

It feels like more than an orgasm, more than her stars aligning back into balance, it feels like the first touch of life in the barrenness of winter, like absolution, and homecoming, and life and death.

“Better than your dreams?” He pants against her wet thigh. She gulps air down, her chest heaving with the exertion of staying contained in her body. Her brow furrows once his questions sets in, the tight guilt in his voice.

“Wh-“ She starts, unsure of where to go with this, but his hand reaches up, wraps once more around its rightful place and she arches into him again, contained by his hands.

“You’ve been wide open, darling.” He pushes her legs wide again and she feels dizzy, disoriented as he pulls her down to him, soaking wet and wide open on his thighs. He keeps one hand wrapped vine tight around her throat, pushing her head over back to the bed’s edge. His other hand goes to his trousers, and she lifts her hips up, rubs herself against him and his hand. “Calling for me, practically crying for me.” She pushes one hand at his chest on instinct, breath coming short now and her mind running into a different million directions. He grabs her wrist, brings it close to his mouth, tongues the vein there. Speaks against her pulse, softly, like a lover.

But those aren’t words, her minds slip slides into the landscape of her dreams, the hissing, the confusion. She feels the hot steel of him nudging against her and she squeezes herself together, gets one hand down to wrap around his prick. It’s hot and heavy in her hand, the weight familiar, the length and girth is going to make her hurt, but she will love the pain.

She feels the world tilt uneven, her skin too tight for her body, her mind lost in the senses that surround her. She feels universal, strong, like something is clicking into place, like magic when he finally slides in.

He moans and it makes her gasp, whimper, pull at him just as much as he grabs at her. His hands are everywhere, clenched in her wild hair and gripping her hips so tight she worries, feels a flash of guilt before he drags her up.

He fucks just as sweetly violent right back into her. She gasps, she’s slippery wet and the sounds are horrendously loud to her, the wet squelch of their reunion. He pulls her by the hair, so her vulnerable throat is exposed to him.

“Don’t.” She won’t look him in the eye, and her hands are haltingly close to pushing his chest again but she won’t do that either. He stops himself, can’t help but thrust into her one more time, deep, too deep and she winces away when he pulls her close. Nothing between them but his clothes and the sweat on her skin. He takes the hand out of her hair and puts it around her jaw, fingers dig sharp, deadly into the hinges on either side.

“You’re still mine, aren’t you, Harriet?” He says, breathless as her, their mouths so close together, the taste of her clinging to his lips, their chests chasing each other close.

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t want to put to voice just how much that’s true. Her eyes still feel wet with tears and she can’t look away from his, wide eyed at each other.

But, the tear finally comes and she wants to excuse it from the longevity of having her eyes so open to him in the first place. It's a lie. His claims are persistent to her openness, like she will always belong to him, from the very first day he held her, dark haired babe, to right now, just as naked on his lap.

It will not be reciprocated. He has only ever belonged to himself.

And what can she say, when he has hooked and tethered him to her, when she cast the very first line herself but, “Yes.”

“Then every part of you belongs to me.” He thrusts up again, angles her head so he speaks into her mouth. “From this perfect cunt to that honeyed mouth of yours, it is mine.” He shakes her, rattles her teeth around the words that he shoves so ardently into her. “You know that, don’t you? You feel that in your bones.” He fucks into her harder, and her hips catch his rhythm, as in tune to his body as she ever was hers.

“Tell me.” He pushes her up, mouths around her nipples, her aching breasts. He kneads them, pulls on her wet nipples, rolls them between his too long fingers just like she likes. She rolls her hips to that, taking his cock, unimaginably deeper inside, her clit rubbing on his pubic bone, the glan of his head rubbing against something inside of her that has her mindlessly moaning his answer, all the right words he wants to hear.

He jerks her on his dick, as rough as when they first started, long ago when they didn’t know anything, just that feeling of all consuming pleasure, that do or die need to touch the other, be touched.

“Please. Please.” She whispers right back into his open mouth, her arms around the gorgeous curve of his shoulders, her hands wrapped just as tightly around the back of his neck as she is wrapped around the steel he has inside of her. She clutches at him, her nails catching and she feels a thrill, a rush that drives right alongside the tension that is mounting inside of her, the smell and feel and touch of him reigniting everything she thought she had buried.

She puts her mouth on him then, that special place of his between neck and shoulder, the place where her name lives. She mouths at the spot, her teeth catching his skin, a spot already forming on his pale skin, bruised wine.  

He growls, pulls her head so she’s crushed to him and he’s jerking into her, wild. She moans loud, louder than she’s ever been in this house.

“Yes, fuck yes, I want his fucking ghost to hear you.” She frowns, but he swivels his hips, pulls her off just enough that his head rubs against that place inside of her, his place, and she can’t stop the sounds coming out of her now.

She groans, loud, too loud but she can’t stop herself, grinds down on him and undulates on top of him, her elbows coming out to land on the bed so she can use that for leverage.

She whimpers around him, leans her head back as he fucks her and tells him, “It’s so good, please, please.” He grabs her hips, pushes her farther up onto the bed until her tail bone starts to grind into the edge, the dull throb of pain sparking along her back. She tightens her legs around him but he growls at her, his hair a mess, sweat and slick all over him. That one adorable curl. It’s that tenderness that will never be squashed inside her, that flower that only grows for him.

He grabs her hips, pulls her closer, his breath and his smell all around her. She grunts as she lets him rock her, he grips her thighs, spreads her legs high and wide, completely exposed to him. He always like to watch her, see himself sliding into her. He fucks harder, rougher, a fever pitch that she matches, catches her own legs and feels the muscles pull tight, shake. His thrusts turn into grinds, and it puts pressure on her clit, primed and swollen. She feels that tightening, her body shaking like mad, the crest of a wave, the dark of night.

“Yes, yes.” He groans into her ear, jerks her closer to him as she comes and comes. She clenches tight around him, can feel the way her muscles contract from the inside, again and again, sucking him into her, letting him go just to pull him back. She feels like her skin is too tight, a headache forming at the base of her skull, suddenly, strangely. Her body feels strange, like she’s half in, half out of this world, her heartbeat loud and fast in her ear, she can feel the thump of it in the base of her neck. The blood that rushes to her head sounds like a river.

She faintly feels him finally pull out, his hand grazing the inside of her thigh where her legs have fallen open, stroking himself off on her, to the wet mess he left of her.

That strange hissing, wrapping around them, like ringing in her ears, but her eyes go sightless, it’s so dark, even the moonlight hides. She feels a cool breeze all over her heated body suddenly, like someone’s opened the window, but Tom is still a solid presence between her thighs.

The pain comes next, right in the deep pit of her womb, like he fucked her open, like he’s killed her with his sex. She gasps, cries out and tries to sit up, to curl in on herself but his hands are there, pushing her down, keeping her there.

“Stop, stop, something-“ She sobs, the pain moving up, into her body, across her chest, like wire wrapping around her heart, squeezing, until she chokes on her own breath.

His hands are around her throat, and she feels him, slick bodies rubbing against the other, and in her ear, in her heart and mind and soul, that familiar hissing until the world floats away.

 

*

 

She wakes up on the floor, arse up, back bowed. He’s thrusting lazy and slow inside her, the slick of her running down her thighs. He’s quiet, and she startles, tightens around him and it pulls a groan out of him.

“I was beginning to worry, darling.” She frowns, but this isn’t the first time she’s woke up to him inside of her. She gets on her elbows, confused, and feeling an ache that goes to her very soul. He slows enough so he can drape himself over her, tongue rubbing at every part he can reach, an imprint of teeth that has her jerking on his dick.

She tenses, feels _wrongandworryandthisisntright_ down in her bones, like he unmade her. Like he’s changed her in some fundamental way. She fights him off her, shaky as a newborn colt, but he holds on, enduring her temper, covering her like he’s the filter the world has to get through to reach her.

She’s never felt so raw, so opened. She fists her hands, tries to use all her strength to buck him off but she crumples, boneless, flat on the floor and out of breath. “Stop, stop, I-Tom, something-TOM!” She growls out his name, anger and misery of a different kind flooding her. And then.

He’s on the other side of the room, the thump of his back against the wall an echo in her ears, his face shocked and awed and she feels that white hot panic buzz in her brain, like she’s slipping into another world, another life that is both familiar and shockingly new. Her breath comes hard and fast, a giant anxiety attack forming like an atomic bomb until he crawls toward her, cautious eyes but a grin that speaks of triumph.

He takes ahold of her ankle, rolls her so her back lays against the cool wood floor, a shiver that rolls through the shakiness of her body. He crawls over her, his eyes eating up the moonlight again, and says quietly into her ear, “It’s ours again, Harriet. I’ve gotten it back for us.”

**Author's Note:**

> A Taboo binge that produced a one shot that was just an excuse to write a fuck ton of fucking that somehow bloomed like a tree in the spring.
> 
> We’ll see.


End file.
